Page 138 of Stricken

I gesture at the truck. "Would you like to inspect the goods?"

Rinaldo jerks his chin, and one of his men moves toward the vehicle. Vlad bangs his fist on the doors and Seven swings them open from the inside. Rinaldo's man climbs in and scrutinizes the boxes, then pulls out a pocket knife and cuts the top on the box nearest to the edge.

Vlad is standing off to the side, his arms crossed on his chest, his face harsh, every line wound so tight. He only breaks the pose to glance at his wristwatch once.

I observe as Rinaldo's man pulls out a bag and lifts it to the sun sneaking inside the truck. He studies the white powder while I keep my expression neutral. This is just business as usual. Rinaldo's guy will make sure the coke is indeed Brazilian and hasn't been tempered with and we're off. Tony will deal with the Armenians and his suppliers after that.

The knife's blade catches the light as the man slices the bag open. He dips the tip into the powder, bringing it to his tongue. I wait as he tastes it.

His face contorts. He spits, hurling the bag to the ground. "Che cazzo è questo?" he snarls, rounding on me. "You think we're idiots, you little shit?"

My blood runs cold despite the heat. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's sugar, youstronzo!" he roars in Italian. "Are you trying to play us for fools?"

Sugar?

That's impossible!

My hands and knees shake as I jump into the back of the truck and snatch another bag, tearing it open. White spills onto my fingers. I bring them to my mouth, tasting—

Sweet. Sickeningly sweet.

My stomach lurches. I spin to where Vlad was standing just a minute ago.

But he is no longer rooted to the spot. His frame lingers in the background now.

Seven is no longer inside the truck either. He's gone and I didn't even notice.

The Hellhounds have their guns trained on the Italians.

My mind reels. What the fuck is going on? The thoughts strobe like emergency lights but no answer follows.

Rinaldo's eyes bulge, his hand inching towards his waistband.

"I wouldn't," Vlad's voice cuts through the air, ice-cold.

"We agreed to return the shipment to my uncle," I croak like an irrelevant dumbass who is the only one not getting what's happening here. I jump off the truck and the moment my feet collide with the ground, Hector and Marco are at my sides, restraining me.

Vlad's gaze meets mine, eyes devoid of warmth or any familiarity. "Sorry, I changed my mind, Morelli."

The casual use of my last name slices so deep I don't think I can breathe. It's like I'm talking to a stranger.

"Are you fucking serious?" I lunge forward, but strong hands hold my arms.

Vlad glances at his watch while I'm trying to put together the sudden puzzle. My vision blurs, the desert landscape warping into a surreal nightmare and the world pinpoints to him and him only.

"Stop!" I shout at him. "Fucking stop and explain yourself, asshole!" There's still hope in me, hope that this is some kind of trick, and to make it look realistic, Vlad and his men chose not to tell me now. He'll tell me later. Just like I'll tell him the things I've been wanting to tell him since yesterday.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," Vlad replies loudly over the distance noise of what sounds like a car engine. "I'm keeping the drugs."

"After last night?" I cry out. I know I sound desperate, but I don't think I have it in me to be strong now. "You did all that, pretended to fucking care for me, so you could get your hands on the Morelli merch? After everything you let me do to you?"

Vlad's expression doesn't waver. "Business is business, Nicola. You should know that by now."

My chest constricts, each breath a battle. "Why?" I manage to choke out.

"Because I can," Vlad replies.

---